Dragon in Exile - eARC (34 page)

Quin looked to Natesa.

“Why
especially
this evening?”

“Stands to reason,” said Cheever McFarland. “All them excitable Liaden tourists the boss here just threw outta the Emerald are gonna go lookin’ for fun someplace else.”

“Skene is very good,” Father added. “Indeed, her skills as a muscle reader might qualify her for Scout training. However, even a very astute and careful woman might find herself confused in such a…cosmopolitan arena.”

“Wait,” said Quin. “Audrey and the
hetaerana
—they will also be at a loss. Someone might…be hurt.”

Someone might, indeed, he thought, be murdered. While
hetaerana
were accorded every courtesy—even revered—in Liaden society, such a crowd as he had seen today, at the Emerald…Would they even allow that there could
be
Terran
hetaerana
? Would they allow an inappropriate touch—and surely there
would be
inappropriate touches—to be a gift of art, or an insult?

“I should go now,” Quin said, pushing his chair back.

Father moved a hand.

“You have time to do justice to your wine. Your grandfather stands at Audrey’s right hand, and she has accepted the assistance of several Scouts.” He shook his head. “Who could have thought that we would rely so heavily upon the assistance of Scouts, only to get from one day to the next? I hope they do not find themselves ill-used.”

“As I understand the matter from Captain ves’Daryl,” Natesa said, “the members of the Surebleak Transitional Team have volunteered for the duty. Those are the Scouts we see here. Others pursue their duties and explorations elsewhere.”

“Then those who remain with us have an investment in the world, and in the survival of us all. That is well.”

Father finished his wine.

“Quin, allow Mr. McFarland to bring pen’Erit to you. I think you will find that he gives very satisfactory service. When you see him, please convey to your grandfather my deepest affection, and assure him that I have not forgotten our dinner assignation. Natesa, my love; I believe I shall retire.”

“An excellent plan,” she said. “I will join you.”

“A second sound plan to complement the first.”

He rose, and offered his hand, which she took, though she rose like the dancer she was.

“Good-night, all. Quin, tomorrow there is an afternoon meeting of the Bosses that I wish you will attend in my place. I have uploaded the particulars to your screen. I believe that I should remain with the Emerald, until
Lalandia
tires of us and moves on.”

“Yes, Father.” Quin stood and bowed to his parents’ honor. “Sweet dreams.”

“Well, now,” said Cheever McFarland, as they left the room. “Let’s see if Lefty’s ready for this.”

“Lefty?” asked Quin.

“s’what the cook decided his name was. He didn’t complain any; seems to like it. Might be a little confusing to others out-of-house, on account he’s not left-handed, but a man can be called what he likes, can’t he?”

“Surely. Am
I
to call him Lefty?”

“You wanna call ’im Mr. pen’Erit? Gotta remember who’s the boss, here.”

Quin closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them again.

“My father calls
you
Mr
. McFarland.”

“Well, now, he does. But he does it to tweak me, which we all know, so that’s all right and tight. I don’t think you wanna chart that course with pen’Erit, myself. He’s still building himself back up from a bad fall. ’Course, you
are
the boss, so you’ll know what’s right to do.”

“That,” Quin said, “is a sham. The Bosses make it up as they go along, just like everyone else.”

His father’s head ’hand turned around and grinned down at him.

“That little time away did you a lotta good. Now, you go sit a minute in the parlor, and I’ll bring Lefty in to you.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Audrey’s House of Joy

Blair Road

Surebleak

“Quin!”

Villy arrived in the private parlor to which Valori the receptionist had directed Quin and his ’hand. He was barefoot, wearing dark blue pants that flowed and rippled like water from a tight waistband, to wide legs that went tight again at the ankle, and a sleeveless vest in matching blue, open to reveal his pale, smooth chest. His “working clothes,” Quin understood, having once before inadvertently called on his friend during work hours. He was also wearing scent—something woody and green, with an undernote of rose—and he had done something to bring soft waves into his usually straight yellow hair.

“Valori did not say you were working,” Quin said, stepping forward. “I meant no interruption.”

“I’m on break,” Villy told him, slipping an arm around Quin’s waist and kissing his cheek. He stepped back and looked over Quin’s shoulder with a smile.

“Hi, Mr. pen’Erit.”

“Hello, Villy Butler,” his ’hand said, in perfectly intelligible, if heavily accented, Terran. “I am happy to see you again.”

“Hey, you’ve been studying! Whyn’t you go down to the back parlor and get yourself a cup of tea an’ some of Redith’s cookies, while Quin an’ me catch up. Valori’ll tell you the way.”

“Mr. Quin?” asked prithee.

“It’s perfectly fine, Lefty,” Quin said. “I am safe in Villy’s care.”

“Lefty?” Villy repeated as the parlor door closed behind prithee.

“Our cook gave it to him, and he accepted it as his own,” Quin said. “I suppose a new life might require a new name. But, Villy, truly—I did not mean to take you from your work, or your break!”

“Why’d you come, then?” Villy asked, head tipped to one side. He’d done something to his eyes, Quin thought; they were a deeper blue tonight. In fact, they matched his working clothes.

“I had told you that I would come to you when I was back on port. I am here to redeem my word.”

Villy smiled.

“Well, then that’s not for nothing, is it? I’m glad you did come. Tell you what. Ms. Audrey was mostly having me strolling, on account of my lessons. I had a regular date, and my dinner; now I’m headin’ back to the parlors. So far, everybody’s been real polite, but it’s early, yet. If we get all that crew come into the Emerald, they won’t stay polite.

“I walk the walk, a little bit, but trouble is, I don’t look like our guests off the tour-ship, and I ain’t—don’t—have the lingo. Mr. Luken’s here, o’course, but he’s strolling with Ms. Audrey. I’m thinking if you could lend me your arm, and the guests saw we was getting on all right, that might help keep things calm and polite.”

It made sense; it took into account the sensibilities of all of the guests and the residents of the house, as well. Quin nodded.

“I will be very glad to lend my escort, if you think it will serve. Had I known, I would have dressed for you.”

“What’s the matter with how you’re dressed? Nice sweater…” Villy put his hand flat on Quin’s chest, and walked slowly around him, fingers trailing. “Good pair of trousers…” The hand patted him gently, and Quin shivered, his laugh a little shaky.

“You said you wanted my escort.”

“Might change my mind,” Villy said, teasingly, but the face he showed as he completed his circuit was serious.

“You’ll do fine. Mr. Luken’s already dressed for both of you, and I’ll tell you what—you’re wearin’ about what my date was wearing. What else would he wear? I think that sends a nice message to everybody here—regulars and tour-people, both. Pretty Liaden boy, dressed like a sensible Surebleaker, on the arm of the fellow Ms. Audrey told a guest
only this evenin’
is one of the top artists in her house.”

“Congratulations.”

“Nah, she was just talkin’ big to put the lady in ’er place. Not sure it worked, if what she was after was for the lady to call for me.” He blinked thoughtfully. “Not sure I mind, if it didn’t. That lady didn’t look too easy to please.”

“Whereas I am all too easy to please,” Quin teased.

Villy grinned at him and patted his cheek gently.

“That’s what I like about you. Wanna try it?”

“Yes,” Quin said. “Let us try it.”

* * * * *

Quin had only once, and accidentally, been in Ms. Audrey’s parlors during business hours, and never had he been “on the stroll.”

Villy held his arm lightly, keeping them linked closely enough that their hips occasionally touched. “The stroll,” involved circulating casually and, to an observer, perhaps aimlessly, ’round a parlor, nodding to regulars and acquaintances, if they happened to make eye contact, which many did.

The parlors were where the guests and the
hetaerana
met and mingled. There were small foods and beverages set out on bureaus around the back of the room, and numerous sofas and chairs wide enough to take at least two, as cozily as they might wish. Typically, a guest would enter the parlor and look about. If she did not immediately go to a particular
hetaera
then one of those who was not yet entertaining a guest would rise and go forward to introduce themselves.

The guest would then either go with the
hetaera
to a chair or a sofa, or the first
hetaera
might introduce the guest to another of the house. It was, Villy told him, a house rule that guests who had
stopped by
must sit and talk with the
hetaera
before going to the rooms upstairs. It was also a rule that the
hetaera
chose whether or not to continue the relationship.

Those who had booked appointments in advance, or who were “regular dates,” were passed by Valori or another receptionist directly up to the
hetaera’s
room.

Sometimes, Villy told him, as they passed from the front parlor to the middle parlor, guests just came by to have a drink and a snack and talk for an hour. When they were done, they’d give the
hetaera
a gift—cash being the most common gift on Surebleak—paid the house a nominal fee, and went home.

“It’s been so busy, Ms. Audrey had to open up the kissing room,” Villy said, as they strolled about the middle parlor. There were more Liaden guests in the middle parlor, Quin noticed; all of them in evening dress. One woman was tucked into the lap of a boy about Villy’s age and dressed much like him, stroking his cheek softly with her small, ringed fingers. As Quin watched, she caught his hand and raised it to her breast, holding it there, and squeezing.

“That’s gotta go upstairs,” Villy muttered, but scarcely had he said so than the
hetaera
bent forward to whisper into the lady’s ear, deftly slipping his hand free as he did so.

The lady, however, did not understand his message; she was inclined, as Quin read the suddenly stiff shoulders, to be offended.

“Let us step aside,” he said to Villy, and, arm-in-arm, they strolled over to the chair.

“Good evening,” Quin said in Liaden, in the mode of Comrade. “May I assist?”

The lady turned to look up at him.

“He refuses to continue. Am I an offense to his art? Does he think my gift will be inadequate?”

The lady took a deep breath, and looked over her shoulder at the
hetaera
, who was looking at Villy.

“The rule of the house is that the parlors are for…introductions and preliminaries,” Quin told the lady. “He merely suggested that the appropriate moment had arrived for a remove to his own private room.”

The lady’s face relaxed. Indeed, she smiled.

“Tell him that his art does not fail him. Yes, let us ascend.”

Quin looked at the
hetaera
.

“This is Sheyn,” Villy said, quickly, his voice soft. “Sheyn, this is Quin. What’d you tell her, honey?”

“That Sheyn had judged it time to go abovestairs in order to pursue greater intimacy. She is pleased with that suggestion,” he said, realizing only now that he had not heard Sheyn speak. “I hope I have not misrepresented you.”

“You represented me just fine, thanks,” Sheyn said. “Let her know I’ll be glad to give her tits all the attention they want.”

Quin inclined his head.

“Sheyn-
hetaera
yearns to more fully share his art with you, and swears that, together, you will create that which will warm you the length of your life,” Quin told the lady, cribbing madly from a very bad
melant’i
play he had seen at Trigrace, which had ended with three dead bodies entwined in an eternal embrace, and the Jewel box burning to the ground.

Perhaps the lady had not seen the play. Her face flushed with pleasure, and she slid off of Sheyn’s lap, reaching down to grasp both of his hands and urge him to his feet.

“Have fun,” Villy told him.

“Do my best,” Sheyn said. He smiled down at his guest, and, still holding both of her hands, guided her toward the parlor door.

Villy and Quin continued their stroll.

“You’re doing fine,” Villy said.

“Did you think I would fail you?” Quin asked, taken aback.

“No, I knew you’d do your best for me,” Villy said. “s’only—you don’t come here for the…play. So, I was a little worried you’d shy away from what you might see. Not,” he continued, as they passed the room Scout, who was talking forcefully in Liaden to a man with a coat that looked disturbingly familiar.

“Not that the downstairs rooms are anything t’curl your hair. Usually. Now ’n then a guest’ll forget the rules a little more than Sheyn’s lady. But it ain’t exactly Boss Conrad’s parlor, either.”

Quin chuckled softly.

“I’ve had my tutoring,” he said. “Though circumstances have conspired so that I have not had practice enough to hone my skills, I do not believe I would be irredeemably clumsy.” He looked at the side of Villy’s face.

“Shall we date?”

Villy met his eyes, fair eyebrows drawn.

“Only if it means we can still be friends,” he said slowly. “I got enough dates, if it comes to that, an’ if you need more, we can solve that, easy, right here. Tansy’s real nice, you’d like her a lot, I think. Sheyn…”

“bel’Tarda!” A voice came at volume, shaking the murmur of conversation into shocked silence.

“For the love of the gods, someone bring me Luken bel’Tarda!”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Boss Nova’s House

Blair Road

Surebleak

“Hey, Mike,” Beck was sitting in the alcove off the kitchen, knitting. That was how Beck relaxed after a long day, which Mike had made longer by staying out on the street, but there wasn’t no use sayin’ it was all right to go to bed while any of the house was on the street. Beck would stay up, knitting, or mending, until the last member of the household was home and safe.

“Coffee’s on the warmer,” Beck said. “Need anything else? Handwich? Soup?”

That was why Beck stayed up and waited for them; in case anybody should come home starving. It was better to be short on sleep, Beck said, than to have to clean up the kitchen after one of the ’hands had made herself a handwich.

“Thanks, I’m good,” Mike said, hooking his mug from its peg and going over to the stove. He poured himself a cup of coffee so strong it should’ve climbed outta the pot and into the mug its own self, put the pot down and raised the mug.

The coffee was warm. In the winter, Beck would be sure that it was
hot
, but who needed hot in the sweet summertime?

“What’s the word on the street?” Beck asked, standing and folding the knitting away.

Mike shrugged his shoulders.

“Not much noise tonight, actually. Was hopin’ to find out about any more example-making. We been quiet these past few weeks.”

“Quiet’s bad?”

Mike pulled up a grin.

“Sleet, Beck, you know me! Life’s got no spice ’less there’s something to worry about.”

Beck laughed.

“Well, then, now that the house is counted and accounted for, I’m going t’bed. Mornin’ comes early ’round here. Fresh bread for breakfast.”

“That ain’t much sleep at all, ’less that bread’s rising now.”

“There’s where you’re wrong. I sleep in and Quill’s Bakery delivers hot bread right to the kitchen door. New idea of hers. Thought I’d give it a try.”

Mike shook his head. That Baker Quill didn’t let any ice grow under her boots.

“You remember to use the protocol,” he said to Beck, who grinned and gave a shake of the head.

“Knew you was gonna say that. Night, Mike.”

“Night, Beck. Thanks.”

The light went out, and he heard footsteps going down the back hallway, to Beck’s room. Mike added more tepid coffee to his mug and wandered down the front corridor to his office. It’d started life as a closet, his office; snug; no windows, which most times he didn’t mind, a good central location in house and no draft being more important to him.

Tonight, though, he wanted windows. Tonight, sleet, he wanted to sit outside on the stoop, sipping his coffee and watching Surebleak go by. Might be he’d see something that would either quiet his nerves, or put a name to the trouble hovering just outta sight.

The tourists…well. The tourists had ’em all jumpy, and that was the truth. Nobody’d expected ’em, and nobody quite knew what to do with ’em. Despite his expectations—and his Boss’ belief—some few of the hardier ones had left the port and wandered through town. The Watch liked that, yessir.

Mike drank off some coffee, but he didn’t sit down at his desk.

The tourists, they were an annoyance—they were, he thought, frowning, a
distraction
, but they weren’t the trouble. The trouble he felt down deep in his bones, that was
Surebleak
trouble, and the quiet on the streets made him…afraid.

Usually, there was
some
thing buzzing. While ago’d it’d been that the Road Bosses better stop sticking their noses into what didn’t concern the Road, or they’d see an example made like’d never been made before.

There might’ve been more to that one than some insurance man pissed off ’cause his nose got broke, but the tourists came in, the whisper died, and now there was nothing on the streets.

Nothing.

Well, and could be they’d made a mistake—them who’d taken up with the New Bosses, and who were betting on a newer, better way.

Right before the tourists come, a streeter’d decided not to pay his insurance when the man come in. Broke the guy’s arm and trussed him up with sticky-wrap before calling the Street Patrol to come on over and get ’im.

Which
they had, and—surprise!—turns out the guy’d had a schedule of zamples to be made, right there in his pocket.

So, the Watch, they’d staked out the locations, and—surprise—didn’t nobody show up at any o’the place listed, nor yet at any other place.

The buzz went dead, Mike thought,
then
. That was how it went: No buzz. Tourists. No buzz,
yet
.

Calm before a storm means it’ll snow twice as deep,
Gramma Golden used to say. He couldn’t remember that she’d ever been wrong on it, either.

Dammit
, didn’t he wish the stupid tourists would get on their ship and go! Couldn’t be that much here to amuse ’em, after they’d laughed at the locals, lost a pile o’cash at the gamblin’ house, and used what hadn’t froze off yet at Audrey’s—what was left to do?

Poor little things was blue with the cold, too; you almost felt sorry for ’em. At least
their
Liadens had enough sense to put on a coat if they were cold.

He snorted. If these was the best the old world could muster up, it really did look like Surebleak’d gotten the prize bag o’Liadens for its own self.

Well.

He finished what was left in his mug, thought about going down to the kitchen for more coffee, then decided against.

Morning came early, like Beck said.

Best he got some sleep, too.

* * *

“bel’Tarda! bel’Tarda! What have you wrought, bel’Tarda! Ah, no—the rug; the very rug!”

Quin was moving toward the sound, dodging around those who had come to their feet. The words had been in Liaden, the voice slurred, and if someone who had drunk too many glasses of wine was going to attempt to force a duel upon Grandfather.

“Quin,” Villy came up beside him. “What’s going on?”

“It is too much! I shall burst! Someone bring me Luken bel’Tarda! Hedrede’s honor is the stake!”

“Is Mr. Luken in trouble?”

“I hope to prevent that,” Quin said. “Fetch one of the Scouts—”

“I am with you, young sir,” a female voice came from his other side. “Is it necessary that you involve yourself?”

That, Quin thought belatedly, was a good question, but surely he
must
involve himself. If Grandfather was coming in answer to this half-drunken challenge, he would need Quin as backup.

They had come to the hallway leading to the main stairs. Quin paused, looking about him at a revisioned vista. On his last visit to Villy, the stairs had been enclosed, and a little dark.

Now, they were open to the main parlor, bright and airy, and carpeted with the Queterian that had been held on deposit for years, back on Liad. Held on deposit…

His stomach sank.

By Clan Hedrede.

Kneeling on the rug, in the center of the hallway, was a man perhaps his father’s age; his head was bent, his shoulders shaking, as if he wept. Pressed against the opposite wall was one of the
hetaera
, a woman Quin did not know, with soft dark hair, and a round, pretty face.

She was watching the man, who had surely been her patron, but she kept a wise distance.

As they came upon the scene, she looked up, and specifically at Villy, who jerked his head toward the parlor. She nodded and left them.

“Oh,” crooned the man on the floor, rocking back and forth on his knees. “Oh, the precious honor, the priceless
melant’i
. And it is here! Of
course
, it is here! Where else might it go, when bel’Tarda himself is here?”

He raised his face, and Quin could see that he had, indeed, been weeping; his eyes bright yet with tears.

“Were is bel’Tarda?” he demanded, speaking to Quin, or perhaps to the Scout at his shoulder.

“I am here,” came Grandfather’s voice. “Whom do I address?”

He came forward, dressed in his best coat, and Audrey on his arm, her face frost-white.

“I am Vel Ter jo’Bern Clan Hedrede,” said the man on his knees. He bowed without bothering to find his feet: Student to Master.

“I salute you, Master bel’Tarda; it is a fine Balance! And a shipload of tale-bearers to carry it!” He wobbled where he knelt, got one foot flat, thrust upward, staggered—and improbably kept his feet.

“You are known as a man of fine
melant’i
. I see that it is true!” He lurched toward Luken, one hand out, and stopped as Audrey stepped before him.

“Quin!” she snapped.

“Yes?”

“You tell this guy—you tell him that if he calls in a Balance against Luken, or hurts him in any way, I will—I will contact all of my colleagues in this business and he’ll never get laid again!”

Quin blinked.

“Tell him, Quin,” Audrey said coldly, staring into Vel Ter jo’Bern’s damp face.

Quin looked to Luken, who inclined his head, very slightly.

“Sir,” he said, stepping up to Ms. Audrey’s side. “Here is Audrey, the owner of the Jewel Box and the protectress of the art. She asks me to translate for her. She states that, should you bring pain or grief to Luken bel’Tarda over this matter or any other, she will contact her colleagues the galaxy over, and inform them that you are beneath their notice.”

For a moment, the man only stared at him. Then, he threw back his head and laughed.

“Ah! Ah, this is splendid! She does not understand me, is that so? I am boisterous. In fact, I am in my cups! She is marvelous; I honor her! I will send her a gift, say—no! I will
give her
a gift!”

He removed a ring with a flourish, bowed low and offered it to Audrey on the palm of his hand.

For a long moment, nothing happened; they were all frozen in time.

Quin recovered first.

“Audrey,” he said urgently. “Take the gift.”

“I don’t—”

“Take the gift,” he interrupted, firmly, “and incline your head very slightly. Then you will leave, on Villy’s arm, and he will call for your tea, and stay with you at your table.”

Audrey blinked. She extended a hand and she took up the ring, its stone briefly flaring blue fire until extinguished by her fingers. Vel Ter jo’Bern straightened, uncertainly, and Audrey inclined her head, perhaps an inch.

Quin leaned over to speak in Villy’s ear.

“Call for
zymuth veska
,” he murmured. “Ms. Audrey’s special sort of tea.”

Villy nodded, and stepped to Audrey’s side, offering his arm. She took it and the two of them departed without a backward look. In a moment, came Villy’s voice, raised and commanding.

“Ms. Audrey will have tea at her own table. Bring cakes and
zymuth veska
for Ms. Audrey; she wants her tea!”

Vel Ter jo’Bern smiled and bowed once more to Luken.

“She is worthy of you, sir. I might hope that she would permit me to learn from her, but—no, I see that it cannot be. Perhaps, in time—but time is what I do not have! The ship leaves in a mere twenty hours, and I of course will be aboard.”

“Will you return to Liad soon, sir?” Luken asked politely.

“No, no. I am yet of Hedrede only because my delm cannot abide a scandal. I travel, and the clan pays me to go wherever I will—so long as I do not land on Liad. Have no fear, though. Your Balance will find its mark.” He laughed—and hiccuped.

“Your pardon.”

“If you are not in distress, sir, I will leave you,” Luken said. “Shall I call your chosen companion to you?”

“No, she abandoned me—and she was not in error. I am in no fit state to participate in art. Wait.” He reached into the outer pocket of his coat and brought out a cantra piece. “Of your kindness, sir, I would bestow upon her this gift. I regret, that it is merely money, but one cannot give away all of one’s rings.”

“Indeed,” said Luken gravely. “I will see that she properly understands its value.”

“Thank you, Master bel’Tarda. It has been, if you will allow it, an honor to have met you. Young sir.” He nodded to Quin, then looked blearily at the Scout.

“You are, perhaps, a Scout?”

“I am sir, yes.”

“May I impose upon your skill, to put me into a taxi, and direct it to the Spaceman’s Hostel. The tour has taken rooms there.”

“Certainly, sir.” The Scout offered her arm, the ne’er-do-well took it and the two of them departed for the door.

“Well!” Luken said, when they were alone. “I suggest we join our companions for tea, boy-dear.”

* * * * *

Audrey and Villy were sitting at the center table in the refreshment room, which was as much “Ms. Audrey’s table” as any of them. Villy was looking worried; Audrey was looking at the ring Vel Ter jo’Bern had given her.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Audrey,” Grandfather said, as they approached the table. “You were magnificent.”

“I was
scared
,” she said looking up at him. “
Quin
was magnificent—he got me and Villy outta there before…something happened.”

“Kitchen didn’t know anything about
zymuth veska
,” Villy whispered as Quin claimed the chair beside him. “They brought out Mr. Luken’s sort. Hope that’s not wrong.”

“Not wrong,” Quin said. “I hardly thought the house would have the specific leaf, but it spoke to Ms. Audrey’s consequence and…good taste, to those who have ears for such things.”

“Which many of our guests this evening do,” Grandfather said, settling in to the chair between Audrey and Villy. “I allow Quin to have been inspired, but you must also accept your due, Audrey. You
were
magnificent. May I pour?”

“Please,” she said absently, her eyes still on the ring.

It was, Quin saw, a singular ring, with a wide, carved white metal band—platinum, perhaps—set with a large blue stone, cut to reveal a flaw like the slit of a cat’s eye. The fashion for flawed stones appealed to a certain set of wealthy persons who also considered themselves to be aesthetes, many of whom, so Father had said, wrote poetry.

“This oughta go to Tansy,” Audrey said abruptly. She placed the ring in the center of the table and picked up her cup.

Grandfather replaced the pot onto its warming-tile.

“It should not,” he said firmly, “go to Tansy. Our guest was not so far into his cups that he had forgotten his manners. He left a cantra-piece for Tansy, and his regrets, that he was forced by circumstance to give only money. I agreed to convey the gift and his regrets.” He picked up his tea cup.